The Art of Indifference
by thefluxcapacitor
Summary: Sherlock and John go on vacation, and Sherlock finally summons the courage to reveal his feelings for his friend.


The truth? Sherlock Holmes did not take breaks. A mind like that, how could anyone honestly expect it to stop working, at any given time?  
Sherlock took a drag of his hidden cigarette. He didn't _want_ to be here. There was only one reason he was here and even that reason didn't quite make sense to Sherlock. That reason was John.  
John H. Watson. After having a bomb strapped across his chest, John had decided that a week of getting out of London wouldn't hurt. John wanted to drink cuppas and sit outside at night without hearing gun shots. At least that's what he'd told Sherlock.  
But that didn't add up, because John Watson wasn't haunted by the war; he missed it. So, what was the problem here? Why did John want a break from the war that he had so longed for? Sherlock had agreed, frustrated. But he _had_ given in. Because he wanted John happy. Because he loved John.

This was of course, absurd, by every single one of Sherlock's standards.  
Sherlock Holmes did not have emotions such as this. He barely had presentable manners when he needed to. He hated people. All yapping and yelling. But he couldn't fairly deny it any longer. John Watson was his friend, colleague, and the one person whom Sherlock could never hate. The one person he _could _love. It had been eating at him, prying deeper into his skin and clawed its way into his organs. Love was such a silly word, but it described his feelings for John accurately.  
But how could he have helped it anyhow? Could he have helped that John found him brilliant, and that admiration was something Sherlock had never known before? Could he have helped that John's love of the fight, the action, was just the type of thing Sherlock had needed himself? Could he have helped that he finally felt that he could have someone like him, and not be lying to that person? That this person found him to be…admirable at times? John put up with Sherlock, enjoyed Sherlock's company, _cared_ for Sherlock, like no one else in his life ever had.

Sherlock put out his cigarette and walked back into the airport, seeing John sitting on a bench, patiently awaiting the flight to the States. Chicago Illinois to be exact. John had said he'd been there once before. The city was his favorite of the places he had been to in the U.S. and he had thought Sherlock would like it as well. They had a hotel set up on Michigan Avenue, everything was in place. John had done it all of course. Sherlock was only expected to follow along.

"How much longer have we got?" Sherlock asked in his monotone. He sniffed, uninterested in anything in the airport besides John. And of course, all the little bits of information he was picking up. The wedding ring sliding off the man's finger while he talked to the woman at the bar. The obviously single mother trying to keep all of her children by her side. The young woman who was a college student, trying to get through med school. He knew all of their stories like the back of his hand, and he didn't have to ask them a word.

"About to leave," John replied, giving Sherlock a quick smile before looking back down at his magazine. The smile made Sherlock smile. Anyone else he would have blinked at them. But John, dear God, _John_.

Finally, it was time to board the plane. The two men made their way onto the plane. Sherlock's ears kept popping when they took off, but he hardly noticed. He was too busy examining his friend, who had promptly fallen asleep for the flight. The little tufts of hair sticking out at random, John's hands, showing age and yet strong. His eyes moving in REM sleep. Sherlock smiled. He tried to fall asleep as well, but as usual his mind would not let him. Taking in every detail, he stayed awake for most of the plane ride.

Finally out of the airport and checked into the hotel, John was ravenously hungry. Sherlock, never particularly _wanting_ food, but supposing it wasn't a bad idea, allowed himself to be dragged around by John until they found a restaurant. Mid meal, Sherlock caught himself deducing John for the millionth time. He never really meant to, and yet he could never stop himself. Loving John was one thing; keeping it from John was another. Sherlock supposed John would never notice anyhow. He just thought Sherlock was strange most times. And even if he did find out, would it ever matter? John could never love Sherlock anyhow… With this in mind, Sherlock finally pulled his eyes away from John, and he pretended to eat a bit of pasta.

"Alright Sherlock?" John asked from across the table. Sherlock faked a quick grin.

"I'm absolutely ecstatic."

John wanted to see the museums. If Chicago was famous for anything, it was pizza, architecture and museums. The Field Museum was most famous, and when they got there, Sherlock was instantly annoyed with the ridiculous amount of tourists. Sighing heavily, he followed John through the aisles of ancient history. Dinosaur and reptile bones crept through the walls, and annoying flashes from cameras would seep into the edges of Sherlock's eyes. He didn't want to be here, none of it interested him. But when he looked to his companion he would always smile, because he much more than interested Sherlock. John would smile back as well, completely oblivious. It hurt. Sherlock wondered how much hurt he would be willing to take. For John, would it be a life time?

They decided going out for a few drinks was a good idea. Well, no. John had thought it was a good idea. Sherlock rarely drank. When he was sixteen and drank for the first time he had had far too much and had vomited a fair amount onto Mycroft, and since then Sherlock had never been fond of not having his mind sharp. But, he thought to himself, they _were_ on vacation after all. Even if he didn't like it one bit.  
John sipped his pint slowly, and began to tap his foot to the jazz music being played. Even Sherlock couldn't say the music was bad. It was jazz in Chicago. He looked to John and smiled, carefully sipping his own glass of beer. It didn't taste so bad once you got used to it. Sherlock could feel himself slowly relaxing.

"John…" Sherlock began, but trailed off.  
"Yes?" John asked. Sherlock only shook his head.  
_John, I love you. John, why are you so blind? John, could you ever love me, too?  
_"Never mind."

Sherlock stood up and left the dimly lit bar, only for a moment. He pulled out smokes from his jacket and lit one. The first drag was nice, as always. He knew John didn't want him to smoke, but being with John and not being home, not being on the case, _drinking_, it all only made it more difficult to suppress his love. He wondered how normal people did this. Mid cigarette, John appeared outside as well, pulling his coat around him.

"Sherlock, I thought you were going to quit?" John asked a half sarcastic half serious tone. Even John couldn't hate cigarettes on this night, Sherlock supposed.  
"We're on…vacation," Sherlock retorted, shrugging. "…I really needed this at the moment."  
"Why the need, reason in particular?" John asked, giving Sherlock a skeptical look.  
Suddenly, Sherlock didn't want to pretend anymore. He didn't want to be reasonable. He was in love, and people tell the one that they love, that they love them, don't they? Losing John…he wouldn't lose him, not if he did not ask for anything in return. It was just a statement, really. Just a fact, in the midst of so many others.

"Because of you, John," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. John's face turned to utter confusion.  
"Because of _me_? What have I done?"  
"You haven't done a thing, John. You haven't done anything at all."

Sherlock continued to take long drags off the cigarette, thinking desperately that he needed to be far drunker to do this.

"Well, if I haven't done anything then why do you need a cigarette so badly because of me?"  
"John, I love you," Sherlock said. He didn't even look up from his cigarette. He couldn't bear to look at John, if he was being honest with himself.  
"Sherlock, I'm not sure what you mean but honestly, you've only had one drink, I don't think-"  
"No, John. I'm not drunk at all. I love you. That's what I mean. I am in love with you. That's why I'm smoking, that's why I'm going mad, and that's why I feel terrible. That's what I mean."

John looked completely taken aback. He didn't seem to be able to form a coherent sentence. Sherlock's heart was pounding, though he remained pretending to be disinterested with the whole scenario. That was what always protected him. Sweet, sweet indifference.

"Sherlock…I'm just…surprised. I didn't think you would ever…"  
"What? What John, someone like me could ever _love_?"  
"Don't be daft, Sherlock. I just didn't think you were interested in love. I…"  
"I never was until you came along. But I expect you'll want to leave now."  
"Why would I ever want to leave, Sherlock?"  
"Because you don't love me."

John sighed heavily, trying to come up with what to say. Sherlock knew he was right. John did not love him. John was straight, for one. John saw him as a dear friend. And that was all. And now Sherlock had gone and made it unbelievably fucked.

"Sherlock, come back inside with me, please," John said, his voice low and soft. It made Sherlock get goose bumps.

"Alright."

Back inside the bar, both John and Sherlock quickly began to drink much more than either had originally intended. Sherlock simply did not want to deal with the thought of his best friend, the one man who ever understood him, the one person he could ever fall in love with, leaving. Slurring speech, Sherlock looked to John.

"John, will you leave me now," Sherlock asked, eyes drooping, alcohol setting in.  
"Sherlock, I do not ever intend to leave you. I can tell you that much at least. Unless you want me to."

"I don't _ever _want you to leave, John. You're the only person I've got."

After drinking far too much, both men wobbled back to their hotel in a haze, although they had both somehow found that they were holding each other's hands, holding each other up in their drunken splendors. They laughed at each other tripping, picking each other back up. In the middle of a cross walk they stopped for a moment. Both had hands on the other, and they watched each other stand in the Chicago Street light for some unknown amount of seconds. Sherlock's hand found its way to John's face, and they both leaned closer towards the other.  
And then the car horn sounded. Much too loud, Sherlock realized that the car was in fact honking at them. They were in the middle of the road. John pulled himself and Sherlock out of the road, and then sighed.

"We're back at the hotel," John said, and then walked through the large doors. Sherlock followed.

In the morning, Sherlock awoke with a pounding head. The night before was a bit hard to remember, only bits and pieces really coming back. And then he remembered.

John. He had told John. He had told him that he was in love with him. Sherlock sighed at himself and pulled the cover over his head, and groaned.

"Wake up, Sherlock. It's nearly noon. I have aspirin and water, we need to eat."  
"No, no. My head's pounding," Sherlock responded, half awake, not willing to move out of fear he might vomit.

"Wake up. Get up, now. The longer you lay there the longer you'll feel like rubbish."

Sherlock eventually got out of bed. He showered and dressed, and then headed out to lunch with John. The Chicago air was warmer today. John insisted on pizza, because he hadn't had deep dish pizza in so long. For once, Sherlock didn't mind really eating, but after a while, he began to worry just how much damage he'd done with John.

"John, what I said last night. I'm sorry."  
"What in the hell are you sorry for?"  
"John, don't be an idiot. I know you can't love me back, so I'm sorry I said anything about it at all. I should have never told you."  
"Sherlock…do _not_ be sorry. Of course you should have told me. How long has this been happening? In fact, you should have told me sooner. You're my best friend, I should know this. You can't help who you love, Sherlock. Never apologize for loving."

Sherlock smiled at John, and John smiled back.

"Thank you," Sherlock said.

On their last day in Chicago, they decided to take a boat ride. The air was cool but it was sunny, and the boat moved at a leisurely and relaxing pace. Sherlock was at peace with himself for once. Though John would not love him back; that was okay. Because John was going to stay, regardless. His best friend was going to stay. The boat ride lasted two hours, and as the time dwindled down, John put an arm around Sherlock, and leaned his head against his shoulder. Sherlock kept his hands in his pockets, but smiled and closed his eyes. This was enough. He wouldn't ever need anything more from John than this.

The plane ride was shorter somehow, on the way back to London. John slept through it again, and once more, Sherlock did not, at least at first. Instead, he studied John's breathing, taking in every detail of the man he loved. Contented by John's words over lunch from the days before, and the hum of the plane, Sherlock closed his eyes, and then unexpectedly fell into a deep sleep.

221 Baker Street was eerily quiet as Sherlock and John walked inside. It seemed as though they had been gone for years, but it had only been a week. Slowly, both men unpacked their belongings and settled into their flat. John made two cups of tea and went to bed quite early. Sherlock assumed it was simply because of jet lag. Sherlock stayed up himself however. He began looking over files for a new case Lestrade had left them while they had been gone.

Around three o'clock in the morning, Sherlock looked up from his files to see John standing in the doorway.

"Sherlock, come in here," John said, motioning behind him towards his bedroom. In utter confusion, Sherlock set down the files and followed John.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked. John sat down on his bed and patted the side of it, telling Sherlock to sit next to him.

"Sherlock, I'm not going to lie to myself any longer."  
"How do you mean?"  
"I've been trying to tell myself that I am what I always have been. A man who would fall in love with a woman. But I don't think it's working anymore. You changed that set up a long time ago."

Sherlock ached. Sherlock's body was an old beggar man on his hands and scraped up bloody knees, asking God if the food in front of him was in fact truly there. He could not form words, but John understood from the look on Sherlock's face. Sherlock was so happy he could not think of anything to say. For the first time, Sherlock Holmes was speechless.

John leaned across his bed, put his hand in Sherlock's hair and then kissed him. Sherlock reciprocated. And then John pulled away, and said something Sherlock never thought he would hear.

"I'm in love with you, Sherlock Holmes."


End file.
